4077th High Life
by Angel-of-the-silence
Summary: When a chopper goes down in enemy territory, Hawkeye takes off after the nurse aboard. OC perspective.


When I got a summons to Colonel Potter's office, I was unsure as to whether or not I was in trouble. It wouldn't surprise me if I was in trouble because of something the boys in the Swamp had done, regardless of whether or not I had been an unwitting participant. Gathering up my courage, I went into the tent and knocked on Colonel Potter's door. For several seconds, I heard nothing but Klinger arguing with someone over the radio about swapping toilet paper for better something. I didn't get that far into the conversation before Potter called me in.

I was surprised to already find Major Houlihan there. She continued as though I hadn't interrupted her.

"Lieutenant Hodge studied under a good friend of mine in Des Moines—I'm sure she's seen the procedure. I have it on good authority that she's been allowed to scrub in on it twice." Colonel Potter glanced down at his desk before glancing at me.

"Well, Hotlips has me convinced, if you feel capable of assisting with a demonstration of the effectiveness of cardiac massage, I'd like to give you travelling orders to the 375th Evac hospital up the road a piece." He was offering me a chance to get out of camp and see how another hospital operated… literally. Houlihan shifted beside me.

"Sir, I think you should tell her what she's facing if she decides to go."

"Oh, yeah… you'll be assisting Pierce. You still want it?"

"Absolutely, sir. It's a wonderful opportunity."

"Well, pack a bag—the two of you leave ASAP." I saluted as smartly as I could in my excitement. This was almost as good as a weekend in Seoul! I waited to be dismissed before turning and hurrying back to my tent. I packed a bag quickly, and headed for the landing pad. I met up with Hawkeye there. We stood in silence for a moment before he turned to say something.

The words never made it out of his mouth; one of the first sergeants caught up with us, and asked that Captain Pierce please follow him. One of Hawkeye's post-op patients had taken a bad turn and needed to be checked out, quickly. I was instructed to be on the helicopter, whether or not Captain Pierce made it back.

Turns out, I got sent on ahead because Hawkeye got stuck performing emergency surgery. So, the helicopter picked me up, and we headed out for the 375th.

We never made it.

Ten minutes into the flight, we flew right over a North Korean gun emplacement that had pushed through a weak spot in our lines. The pilot and I had been making casual conversation when the first rounds hit, one not six inches from the toes of my right foot. Suddenly, the helicopter pitched violently, throwing me around—despite my restraints. Immediately, we began to lose altitude and were jostled forcefully around the cockpit.

I could only brace myself as we began a sickening plunge towards earth.

Feeling my stomach turn over, I swallowed hard and told myself that I wasn't going to throw up. If I was going to die, I was going to die with some dignity. The ground rushed up at us, faster than I expected, even though our crash was still (at this point) somewhat controlled. With a great heave against the controls, the pilot managed to swap the direction of the nose 180 degrees just before we were caught by the scrubby trees and skidded to a hard, jolting stop, perched on the edge of a steep slope. I began to take stock of my injuries.

All were minor, bruising and a gash over my right eye from hitting the canopy at some point. I didn't feel like I had a concussion, but I was wary for symptoms, should they occur. Turning to the pilot, I examined him—and discovered he wouldn't need my help. Somehow, a piece of the rotor blade had snapped off during our "landing" and had sheared through the cockpit. That poor boy, who just seconds ago had been talking and laughing with me was now in two pieces, completely eviscerated.

Leaning over, I closed his eyes and did the best I could to alleviate the look of shocked horror he was blankly giving me. I couldn't feel, I couldn't be sick, I couldn't even cry. He'll just be another farm kid sent home in a body bag. Thinking quickly, I lurched forward and grabbed the dead pilot's headset. I looked for buttons, something— anything— that might tell me how it operated. When I thought I had it figured out, I began to search for help.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday… this is the MASH 4077 chopper en route to the 375th. Mayday, mayday, mayday… can anyone hear me? We've gone down. Repeat…" A voice cut through.

"This is the 4077th MASH, Lieutenant Hodge, is that you?" Thank you, God!

"Yes, I don't know where we are exactly… I think we're…" A deafening burst of static obliterated my hearing for several seconds. Tearing the headphones off, I shook my head trying to get rid of the persistent ringing. Finally, I put them back on and began talking to the 4077th. I got no answer.

For two hours I sat there, using the radio to call out a mayday to anyone else who might hear me. I raised the 4077th again, but only for a few seconds, not long enough to give them an estimate of my position. I finally gave up on the radio, and began to notice just how quickly night was falling over the area. And, remembering the gun emplacement that brought us down, I also began to realize that I might be in enemy territory.

All around me, I could hear, and occasionally see flashes of, artillery fire and wondered whether or not we were winning. The cockpit swiftly lost whatever heat the sun had given during the daylight hours, and I began to look around for my bag and any extra articles of clothing I could find to give me warmth. I pulled on a double layer of everything, I could barely bend my legs in two sets of winter fatigue pants. Somehow, I finally got my legs curled up onto the seat with me, and covered myself with my coat. Thank God the wind had had just enough bite to it that I'd thought to bring my coat.

Cradling the headset near my ear so I could hear anyone who might get through, I began to contemplate my next move. As I settled in to keep watch over the crash site, I began to run through scenarios. I could stay with the aircraft, which would make it easier for our American planes and choppers to find me, but it would increase the risk being found by the enemy before the 4077th could get there. Or, I could take my chances and pick a direction to try and walk out to avoid the enemy and hopefully find warmer shelter, or possibly another Army outpost—although a childhood spent in the back country cautioned me to stay put when lost. If I walked out, they might find the wreck, without me, and assume I had been captured.

I liked my odds a lot better staying in or near the aircraft. As I tried my best to keep guard duty, I began to see people picking their way towards me. They were Chinese soldiers, everywhere I looked! I blinked and they disappeared. That wasn't good.

Every time I would get settled in to sit watch, I would see those damn Chinese soldiers everywhere I looked. And every time I blinked, they would disappear. I don't know how long I stared into the night before I accidently drifted off to sleep. Around dawn I awoke, a light layer of frost having formed on my coat and near my lips, eyes, and on my cut, due to the shattered cockpit window.

I started rubbing my face to get the blood flowing again; bit by bit the ice began to thaw. I must admit, I cried during this procedure, the flesh felt dead and cold for a while before circulation finally returned. Pulling my toiletries from my bag, I took a hand mirror and face cream and began to clean my injuries. I looked like I'd been in a bar-room brawl, I just hoped I looked like the winner.

The higher the sun crawled in the sky, the warmer the cockpit became, until I was finally forced to shed my coat. I didn't dare shed my extra fatigues, just in case I had to make a run for it. I sat up in my seat, stretching myself out to relieve my tired muscles. I gave one good, long stretch, feeling the helicopter shift beneath me—I froze, slowly returned my body to a sitting position, and shifted gently to peer out the window. With the bubble cockpit, I had a decent view of the terrain behind me—it wasn't pretty. The helicopter had perched on the edge of a very steep… dizzyingly steep, actually… slope dotted with large rocks and scrub trees. With agonizing slowness, I began to ease open my door, so I could bail from the chopper if it began to slide.

I never made it.

I pushed, with a small nudge, to get the door to open, and that was all it took to send the helicopter skittering down that slope. For the second time in as many days, I braced myself as best I could and rode out the bumpy ride. I felt the craft break in half with a gut-wrenching screech, and saw the tail section stop, caught in a bush. The cockpit continued sliding, off kilter now. I heard a skid, already crumpled from the crash yesterday, break off and slide out from under the cockpit. I could tell I was getting to a rocky area of the slope as the bubble cockpit began to bounce violently to and fro. It was all I could do to hang on.

At last, there was a final bump, very hard, like the chopper had been slammed against a wall. I must have hit my head then, because the next thing I remembered, I woke up, hanging half out of my now open door. I sat up, looking around and noticed that the pilot was now gone. My first thought was that he'd gone for help, until I remembered the state he'd been in yesterday—he hadn't gone anywhere of his own accord. Staggering around the new crash site, I discovered my bag, half open and leaking what was left inside, including a pair of my under things. My coat was nowhere to be seen.

Absentmindedly stuffing my under things back in the bag, I began a trek up the hill looking for the rest of my things. They were scattered here and there… a bra on a bush, my mirror against a rock with a spray of broken shards beneath it, my toothbrush half buried in the sandy soil. I had found most of my things, when I heard an engine approaching. Thinking I might still be in enemy territory, I found a little clump of scrub to hide in. I peeked carefully through the brush, probably being as discreet as a wounded elephant.

About mid way between the crash site, and the hilltop, I heard the vehicle squeal to a stop. Waiting cautiously, I heard a man's voice in the stillness. I couldn't be sure, but the voice sounded like he was coming closer. It had a familiar cadence that I couldn't place off the top of my very banged up head. Finally I caught a snatch of what he was saying.

Praise be, he was speaking English! Cautious of a North Korean trap, I waited until the man came to the edge and peered down at the wreckage. He was close enough for me to make out his jacket, slightly out of fashion and non-military. For a moment I was confused as to what the hell was going on, trying to reconcile what I was seeing with what I knew couldn't be true. When he turned, my heart nearly stopped.

The man was Hawkeye Pierce.

Of course he'd be the only man bold enough to wear a non-regulation anything. Without thinking, I burst from my cover, scrabbling up the hill, until he saw me and shouted at someone before coming down the hill towards me. He was coming down pretty fast, throwing up dirt, before sliding to a stop in front of me.

"Oh, thank God… my Triple A doesn't cover me this far into Korea, you had me worried." His flip humor didn't even feel out of place, just everyday and safe. Helping me carefully up the tricky slope, he took my bag and hauled me by the elbow, "Where's the pilot?"

"I don't know. When we first hit, we hit at the top of that hill," I indicated the top of the slope we were headed up, "But he was already dead, part of the rotor sliced through the cockpit and hit him. I assume I lost him somewhere on the slide down the hill."

When we crested the roadbed, I don't think I'd ever been happier to see Corporal Klinger, dressed as he was—to the nines for an evening in Korea's own Little Toledo.

"Why'd you bring him?" I asked, puzzled by his choice of partner. Klinger wasn't exactly rescuer material in his cocktail dress and heels, complete with feather boa and kid gloves.

"Who, Klinger? He scares the Chinese away. He also scares the generals away." He tossed my bag into the jeep and helped me in while Klinger cranked the engine. We took off, making tracks for camp.

"What made you stop where you did?" I asked as we sped down the road.

"I wouldn't have stopped if our officer and gentleman friend here hadn't spotted that skid lying just off in the bushes." Klinger shouted at me over the roar of the wind. Hawkeye looked almost pensive as we rode in silence for a while.

"I'm glad you found me, I was starting to worry."

"We're glad we found you too. He's been looking for you since that first mayday call went out. He walked out on a direct order to stay put." Klinger looked at Hawkeye and I followed suit. That was enough to draw him out of his thoughts.

"I've never liked listening to Hammond… that man's an ass." I sucked in a deep breath. He had defied a general to come get me, not just Colonel Potter… but a general.

"He drove to the 375th and back by one route, circled through the camp just to get the general's attention, asked for directions back to camp, and then took off. I heard all about it from the general himself when he dialed up Potter to bellyache about it." He smiled, "At first light, we started driving this road, because they had it closed last night, I guess a group of North Korean and Chinese guys busted through our lines and were shelling whoever they could get a clear shot at." I thought back to all of the soldiers I thought I'd seen and felt my skin crawl.

"Yeah, like us," I couldn't help but think of my pilot-- one more victim of this cold, awful war.

We rode the rest of the way in silence. Or, as silent as a ride in an open air jeep can be in the middle of an active war zone. But, we made it back without any incident. As we pulled in, Hawkeye barely let Klinger stop the jeep before he bailed out. I followed quickly, calling after him.

Turning back, he said, "I'm going to go face the music, no matter what tune the general's picked—knowing him, it won't be pretty no matter what it is." He started to walk away, and I stopped him.

"I don't know how to thank you for coming after me, but whatever punishment you get, I should get too. It's my fault. I'm an officer, I should have been able to look at the situation and give advice." Faster than I would have believed, rounded on me.

"Dammit, Mary Ann… it's my fault you got shot down alone. If I had been there…" he trailed off, bringing his hand up to gently trace the fresh cut above my right eye. I don't know which surprised me more his use of my first name—or his touch. Aware of our surroundings, he dropped his hand just as quickly.

"Maybe you would have been killed too. I'm glad you missed that flight. If you hadn't, we'd still be lost out there—you saved me. That's worth something." I followed him to the Colonel's office—despite his protests that I should rest— and the three of us stood before General Hammond to explain. Hawkeye and Klinger attempted to explain their actions, and I reported on the incident as I had witnessed it. When we were finished, the general quietly dismissed Klinger and I, but not Hawkeye.

The two of us milled around for several minutes, waiting for the shouting, waiting for the turmoil, waiting for anything. After twenty minutes, I told Klinger to go on. After another ten, I ordered him to leave. Five minutes after that, Hawkeye emerged from the tent. He flicked his gaze to me and kept walking. I fell in step beside him.

"What happened in there?"

"Before we get too far along on this subject, I'd like a drink." He made straight for the Swamp.

"What a gentleman… I thought you'd never ask," I said, following. We went in, he kicked Charles out and closed the door. Pouring us both martinis, he swallowed his in one gulp. I followed suit and he poured again.

"Hammond gave me a private, verbal commendation."

"Is that it?" I asked.

"Mostly. Oh, he dressed me down for a bit to make it look good, but he commended me on knowing when and how to defy a direct order. He said I made Colonel Potter look good." He took a sip, "He told me I had made him proud by not coming back empty handed, and that I had been damn lucky we hadn't been over-run and killed. And he's right, you know."

"I wish you knew…" I paused, unable to continue. I was about to say something stupid, and I needed to just stop there.

"You wish I knew what?" Of course he wouldn't let me stop there.

"I wish you knew how I felt when I saw you standing there." I took a gulp of the martini.

"What do you mean? You were glad to see a familiar face, albeit a very handsome, rugged face?" He was obviously used to being shot down by the fairer sex. Or maybe he'd just been in Korea for so long he couldn't tell when a girl was trying to tell him how much she liked him. I was trying to tell him that he'd been my "knight in shining armor" that day.

"I was glad to see _you_, Hawkeye. I was so glad to see you I could've…" I plunked my glass down in frustration. I was in over my head here.

"Could've what?" he sounded almost incredulous, but intrigued all the same. And I did something I've never done. I kissed a man first, before he had ever kissed me.

"That," I said, pulling away. Looking at me in surprise, he offered up a dismissive shrug.

"By all means—you can say that again!" He followed my lips and kissed me again. By the end of that kiss, I was feeling pretty glad he'd sent Winchester packing in no uncertain terms. Hawkeye drew the tent flaps and we had a few more drinks.

"Aren't there rules against fraternizing?" I was trying to rationalize my way out of the sticky situation I'd created for myself.

"Well… yes—but only for officers under the same chain of command. You're technically under Major Houlihan, and I'm… well, I'm technically my own boss. I _am_ the chief of surgery, so I assume that makes me boss." He smiled. And right now, being in trouble with the Army was the least of my concerns.

Such was the high life of the 4077th on that cool April day.


End file.
